


Drowning

by FicLogia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek knows how to surf, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hale Family Feels, It's honestly so stupid though, Like, M/M, Near Death Experience, Stiles hates it, Surfing, and swimming, don't sweat it, not the kinky way, some water fun, there's a beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:33:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FicLogia/pseuds/FicLogia
Summary: It was Derek's idea.





	Drowning

**Author's Note:**

> This was an attempt. Tried my best. I honestly don't know what I was trying to achieve. Was this fic necessary? Maybe not. But it's there. Enjoy. 
> 
> P.S.
> 
> I’m not from the US so please forgive if the geography don’t make no sense *nervous laughter* 
> 
> Not beta-ed either, so all mistakes are mine

“We have a beach house down in La Jolla Cove,” Derek mumbles in the middle of the yelling.

The pack was home for the summer, and they’ve invaded Derek’s loft for an impromptu Pack Pizza Party. Some way, somehow, light conversation turned to planning a pack-bonding trip, a last hoorah before they go their separate ways again for junior year of college (senior year for Lydia).

Kira and Scott are happy to just spend another weekend at Lydia’s lake house. Malia and Danny want to look for underground raves. Jackson, Lydia, and Isaac want to travel somewhere exclusive and expensive. The younger members are willing to go along for any ride. And Stiles just wants everyone to remember that the pack is (mostly) made up of broke students working on a tight budget. Also, he doesn’t care where they go as long as he gets to experience a fun, non-supernatural-threat-involved road trip with his pack.

Basically, no one can agree on what to do or where to go and they’re all just yelling at each other. Derek, ever the adult, tries to offer a solution.

“What?” Stiles asks, the only one to hear him in a room full of wolves because everyone else is too busy talking over one another. Also, he might be sprawled on top of Derek.

Derek shrugs and Stiles yells at everyone to “Shut the fuck up!”

“You have a _what_ in a where now?” Stiles asks again, sitting up properly and facing Derek.

“A beach house. In La Jolla Cove. It’s right by the edge of the woods so it’s not too hot or too humid. And there’s a bonfire set up in the back in case anyone wants to go drinking by the beach. The waves are also good for surfing if you’re up for that.”

“Wait, so you know how to surf?” Stiles exclaims, disbelief strong.

Derek sighs, exasperated yet fond in a way he can only be with Stiles.

“Yes, Stiles, I surf. But Cora’s better. Laura, too. We all learned from my dad, but I was never really that interested so…” Memories of his teenage self waving away his father and sisters in favor of texting Kate threaten to come to the surface. Derek tries to shrug it off, turning to his other betas.

“We could go there, if you guys would like? It’s nice, private. There are enough rooms for everyone.”

Lydia tilts her head in that way of hers. “How far is it? And can you show us pictures?”

Before Derek can answer, Stiles slaps him on the shoulder, hard.

“_You know how to surf?!_”

Later, after Lydia’s planned it all out and Scott’s made sure all three minors in the pack have gotten permission from their guardians, Stiles finds Derek in the kitchen washing dishes. Everyone else has gone, leaving the former alpha to clean up their mess. Like always.

_And he looks so content too, the fucking saintwolf._ Stiles muses, catching himself smiling.

He clears his throat, wiping the smile off his face as he approaches the pre-occupied wolf. Wordlessly, he picks up a dishcloth and starts drying while Derek rinsed. They work in silence, falling to a familiar rhythm.

It’s always like this. The pack gathers. They have fun. The pack leaves. Derek cleans up after them, quietly, unappreciated. Stiles watches, Stiles sees, Stiles stays behind to help and keep Derek company.

Because Stiles knows Derek, in a way the rest of the pack didn’t, in the same way that only Lydia knows Jackson, Scott knows Kira, Liam knows Hayden, and (surprisingly) Isaac knows Danny. Stiles knows how lonely Derek got after his pack leaves, the silence befalling the loft resting more heavily on the wolf’s heart, giving rise to old longings for what once was an ever-full, ever-loud Hale home.

Stiles keeps Derek company to keep these longings at bay. And likewise, when Stiles has his moments, Derek watches, Derek sees, and Derek stays.

This is their norm.

They enjoy each other’s company. They bicker and throw jab after witty jab in front of everyone else, but when left on their own, they’re all shy glances, quiet smiles, and quieter moments.

Always, _always_ almost spilling with the promise of something...more, something tender, something more soft-hearted than the crass friendship they’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

They’ve been dancing around each other, and they both know it. But neither of them know what to do to move past the line of friendship they’ve been precariously blurring since Stiles came home last thanksgiving break.

So, they settle for now. For Stiles staying behind. For enjoying each other’s company. For bumping elbows while washing dishes, sharing hushed words of comfort.

“We can always go somewhere else.” Stiles says, focusing on the task at hand and deliberately trying not to look at Derek. “We don’t have to go there, if you’re not ready yet.”

Derek only spares him a quick glance, a small smile on his lips at the thoughtfulness he’s come to, not expect, but unhesitatingly welcome from who was once just an annoying boy caught in the crossfire that was his life.

He shakes his head.

“It’s fine. I...I want to go. That house was made for pack. I don’t want it to go to waste when I have you guys now.”

Stiles looks up then, studying Derek’s profile. Their eyes meet.

Stiles nods to himself, satisfied with what he sees. “La Jolla it is then.”

Derek is beautiful.

Stiles is riding shotgun with him, the two of them shoved and bullied by the pack into the camaro while the others divided themselves into Lydia’s Kia and Scott’s soccer mom car, and all Stiles can think is, _Damn, he’s beautiful._

At a definitely more mature now 20 years old, Derek still refuses to let Stiles behind the wheel of his precious car. Leaving Stiles with no other choice but to talk and...watch, the scenery, the cars passing by, and most of the time, Derek.

Focused on the road, humming along to some pop song he pretends to hate but listens to anyway because Stiles insisted on it, one hand on the wheel and his other arm hanging out of the open window. Stiles can’t help but think that Derek is beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful man, nay, person he’s ever laid eyes on.

Derek is gorgeous, bewitching, divine, and everything in Stiles sings with want to do something about it.

_Take him,_ a voice in his head whispers. _Take him, take him, take him._

Derek glances at him as if reading his mind. Their eyes catch and something in the glint of those hazel eyes seems to answer back. _Yours to take._

Stiles is pulled forward, his heart beating out of his chest, his fingers twitching with the need to reach out. He wants and he’s about to do something about it, he’s going to do something about it, he’s _going_ to dive headfirst—

A car honks as it zooms past them, the spell is broken.

Always,_ always _almost spilling.

“I don’t get it.”

They’re relaxing on the beach, watching Derek teach Isaac, Scott, and Jackson how to surf while the rest indulged in a game of beach volleyball. Stiles is getting his tan on, sprawled on his stomach facing the ocean, contentedly enjoying the view of a glistening and happy Derek from his trusty seashell beach towel. Lydia is gracefully reclined on a beach chair beside him, chic shades on, reading under the shade of her Jackson-installed state-of-the-art beach umbrella.

Stiles turns towards Lydia and rests his head on his forearms.

“Why come out under the sun if you’re just going to hide under this monstrosity?” Stiles asks, giving the umbrella a shake.

Lydia puts her book down and picks up her glass of iced tea. “You know what I don’t get, Stiles?” Stiles can tell by the way she leans back that he’s about to regret opening his big mouth.

“How two men who obviously know they’re attracted to one another, and obviously, frequently look at each other like they’re lost in the Sahara and the only thing that could quench their thirst is one or both of them cumming their brains out—” She takes a sip.

“—How two _grown_ men who are neither in a committed relationship, nor bound in some social construct inhibiting them to just get the fuck together in this year of our lord 2019, would rather look at each other longingly, like they’re in some bodice ripper, making everyone else around them suffer and suffocate from all the unsolicited, unwarranted, and frankly unnecessary angst and unresolved sexual tension.”

She takes a sip again, and gives him the most adorable, most terrifying fake-dumb pout with those coral tinted lips.

“I just don’t get it,” Lydia sighs, putting her tea down and picking her book back up.

Stiles looks back towards the ocean, back towards Derek in the water, relaxed, laughing and teasing Scott and Isaac as they fall off their surfboards again and again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grumbles.

Lydia’s judgmental silence is barely drowned out by the sound of the waves.

“What are you waiting for, Stiles? For the next wave of supernatural bullshit to take him from you?”

It’s not a wave of supernatural bullshit. It’s just a wave.

Derek almost doubles over in the water laughing as he watched Scott try and fail again to stand on his board. Jackson is distracted from the wave he’s riding and swerves right into Isaac, sending the both of them flying off their boards too.

Derek laughs harder.

Jackson breaks out of the water, nose flaring from embarrassment. “Why don’t you do it then if you’re so great?!” he yells at his former alpha.

Derek raises a brow at him and gets on his board.

The waves are getting bigger and the current stronger Derek notes, but nothing a bunch of wolves can’t handle. So he paddles right up to the next wave, Isaac right by his tail.

The water rises and rises and Derek waits for that moment.

The wave breaks through and he jumps up on his board, muscle memory kicking in, immediately finding him his balance. He stands confidently, feet steady, feeling the cool wind and the spray of saltwater, it’s refreshing.

The rush of surfing brings happier memories of his father to mind. The full and deep laugh, the loud play wrestling, the endless subtle teasing imparted with a ruffle of his gelled hair. He forgot how peaceful it was to be out in the water like this.

It’s good to remember.

He looks past the water, past Jackson and Scott sitting on their surfboards, and onto the shore where he can see Stiles.

Stiles sees him.

They smile.

_Always almost spilling._

Derek feels more than hears the loud thud of a surfboard crashing into his. Isaac’s surprised yelp is the last thing that registers before his feet are swept under him and his head hits hard wood (his surfboard or Isaac’s, he’s not sure) with a crack.

Next thing he knows, he’s blinking underwater, his vision blurred with everything aqua. The current pulls him deeper, pulls his board with him as another wave comes bigger than the one before. He flails his arms trying to swim, break through the surface but the current pulls again, pulls harder, he’s losing air, the current pulls again. The strap on his ankle pulls him to a sharp left, sharp pain bursts through his temple, and then —

Stiles snort laughs with unbridled glee watching Jackson’s face as the used-to-be-kanima is flung off of his board and plunged face first into the ocean.

Too bad he didn’t have his phone ready. Good thing Lydia’s recording it on hers.

Seeing Jackson’s outraged face emerge from the water only makes Stiles roll on his side, clutching his middle as he belly laughs again. Jackson really does make it too easy sometimes.

“Lyds, please, for the love of god, send me that vid.”

Lydia huffs. “Sure. I’ll make sure to send you this one too.”

“Huh?” He turns back to the ‘wolves in the water and feels his mouth go dry in an instant.

Stiles has seen Derek in action plenty of times. He’s seen Derek do backflips, flying kicks, punch hunters, claw monsters, and other sorts of badass moves that leave him plenty hot and plenty more bothered.

But nothing quite compares to the vision of Derek surfing.

Wind in his hair, the sun kissing his skin, his smile easy and carefree, Derek looks confident and unburdened while effortlessly riding a bigger wave than the ones the others tried to surf earlier. Stiles might argue that he looks like Poseidon himself, but that would just be his very biased and lust-induced opinion.

Point is, Derek plus a surfboard plus the beach on a hot summer day? Definitely earning a spot in Stiles’ top ten favorite things in the world.

He sees Derek turn to him, feels the smile on those lips mirrored/reflected on his own. How can anyone simultaneously stop breathing and feel like they’ve taken the first true breathe they’ve ever taken in their life? Stiles doesn’t know, but it’s what he finds himself doing in that moment.

_Always almost—_

Isaac comes out of nowhere. He runs straight into Derek. They both fall in the water.

Stiles sees Isaac’s head bob out of before another, bigger wave has him diving below. The roaring of the wave as it crashes back to the sea has Stiles sitting up.

The water subsides. Isaac resurfaces, curls tangled all over his face. Jackson and Scott are laughing and laughing at their packmates’ epic fail. Stiles stands up, eyes searching. He hasn’t seen Derek since before the second wave, and he could have sworn…

He walks towards the shore, eyes on the water looking for Derek, trying to remember if he saw right.

A minute passes, two, a couple more. Derek doesn’t resurface.

Stiles replays everything in his head. Isaac came out of nowhere. He ran straight into Derek. His board ran straight into Derek’s. Wait, No. His board ran straight into Derek, swiping Derek’s feet off of his own board. Derek flew off his board, hitting the water, but not before—

Stiles starts running.

“He hit his head!” He yells at his packmates. “Scott! He hit! His head!”

The current is getting stronger, they need to pull Derek out now.

Heady.

That’s how Derek always feels when he sees, talks to, or thinks about Stiles. As he drifts in complete darkness, unsure if he’s in the land of the living, the dead, or some weird in between, Derek’s mind gravitates back to the boy who always comes to save him.

Stiles with his amber eyes, soft, messy hair, and. Stiles with the plush, cupid’s bow lips, forever caught in a mischievous smirk or a warm, dorky grin. Stiles, who’s always loud in everything he does, especially when it comes to loving and protecting those who are dear to him. Those long, deft fingers, that porcelain mole-dotted skin.

Everything about him makes Derek heady with wonder that such a person could exist. Heady with euphoria that such a person could be, would choose to be in his life. Stiles makes Derek feel heady.

And hopeful. And happy. And, and...easy. Like everything in his hard life can suddenly become easy, effortless, weightless.

In a point of their lives where every breath, every look between them is always almost spilling, Derek wonders if heady and easy and weightless is enough. He wonders what would happen if he’d just tip them over and let everything that’s always and almost finally spill and overflow to both of their hearts content.

He lets his mind wander and wonder, words like grounded and anchor gleaming in the darkness, like sun rays glimmering through the water’s ever-moving surface.

_Almost. Always._

Stiles runs and runs and runs. He hits the water and keeps on running. He sees Scott and Jackson dive back down and he keeps running. He runs until Isaac’s arms are around him, holding him back. More waves come, and water gets into his face, his nose, his mouth, but he wipes them away to keep yelling Derek’s name.

A wave comes. It goes. And Stiles sees Jackson’s head bob out of water, further out into the sea than he should be, than what Derek told them was safe. There’s another person floating beside him.

Scott joins Isaac and Stiles and they watch, the two wolves holding tightly onto Stiles as Jackson drags the other body towards them.

Jackson reaches them and Stiles barely has a moment to think _it’s Derek_, and _he’s pale_, and _his lips are blue_ before the three wolves are hauling Derek’s motionless body to safe shallow ground.

The second they reach the shore Stiles is pushing everyone away from Derek, falling to his knees, and pressing his hands onto Derek’s chest.

_One mississippi._ Push. _Two mississippi._ Push. _Three mississippi._ Push.

He leans over Derek’s open mouth and listens for a breath. Nothing.

Hands to chest again.

_One mississippi._ Push. _Two mississippi._ Push.

“C’mon Derek,” _Three mississippi._ “Wake up you fucking asshole.”

He leans over to check Derek’s breathing again. Still nothing. He opens Derek’s mouth, breathes into it, praying. They wait. Derek’s lips remain so blue.

His eyes dart to Lydia, noting the blank look on her face.

“Derek, wake the fuck up!” He pushes harder on Derek’s chest.

Scott kneels by Derek’s head. He checks for a pulse.

Tears start blurring Stiles’ vision. This is so stupid. If Derek dies like this, because he took a couple of idiot, college werewolves surfing, it’s going to be _so stupid_. And Stiles is going to be so fucking pissed at Derek forever for dying in the stupidest way considering the shitshow that was their life.

“Don’t you dare do this to me you moron. You can’t die like this. I’ve saved you way too many times for you to die like this.”

He loses count and rhythm, and devolves into hitting Derek’s chest in frustration.

“Wake,” _hit_, “the fuck,” _hit,_ “up!”

He raises his hands again a desperate cry on his lips, when Derek coughs and sputters back into consciousness.

“Derek!”

Derek turns to his side and throws up ridiculous amounts of water, gasping and coughing for air. Stiles reaches out to help him, laying him back on the sand.

“You fucking moron, I thought we agreed,” Stiles scolded bent over Derek to shield him from the sun and everything else that ever dared to take him from Stiles, “No dying until one of us gets the balls to say I love you.”

There’s a collective gasp, then an audible silence.

Derek stares up at Stiles with dazed eyes.

“...Isaac pushed me.”

Stiles hits him on the bicep, chuckling wetly, before giving in to the impulse and pulling him in a crushing hug.

The pack laughs around them, relieved.

Stiles walks up to the beach house on a mission.

After the adrenaline of Derek’s near death died down and they were sure Derek will stay in the land of the living, the pack went back to enjoying the beach.

The full moon was high in the sky and they didn’t want to miss the chance to build a bonfire. Understandably, Derek excused himself, still tired from almost drowning to death. But he up and left for the beach house with nothing but a small, shy smile towards Stiles. He told them to feel free to use whatever they needed, and then he just...walked away.

Like nothing happened.

Like Stiles didn’t just lay his feelings out in the open. Like every fiber of Stiles’ being, from his head down to his toes, wasn’t still thrumming with the rush of inadvertently confessing his undying love.

See, Stiles caved without meaning to. He said the three words first and gave up the chance of pulling a Han Solo on Derek, and Derek freaking Hale...totally wasted it.

He won’t let that be for nothing, he refuses to let him and Derek fall back to another couple of years of vague almost-somethings. He absolutely refuses to. His hands are sweating, heart pounding—he’s determined.

He steps through those french doors—

And stops dead in his tracks.

The living room is cast in a warm amber glow. The fireplace is lit and Derek is wrapped in a cozy gray throw, book in hand and clad in that burgundy sweater with the thumbholes that drives Stiles absolutely crazy. It’s devastating.

Stiles must make a noise because Derek looks up, and aims that same shy smile back at him.

“Hey,” he greeted, like nothing’s changed, like he’s not ruining Stiles’ world with every passing second just by being.

_Almost always—_

“You didn’t say it.”

“Say what?” And there’s that furrow between those bushy brows.

Stiles remembers how to use his legs and walks further inside. “I told you I love you.”

Derek puts his book down, eyes steady on Stiles until he’s standing in front of him.

Stiles has a moment to appreciate the sight of those hazel eyes looking up at him, then he realizes how awkward the height difference was with Derek sitting down and him standing up. He sits on the coffee table and pulls it forward until they were bumping knees.

He leans forward, looking at Derek head on.

“I told you I love you,” Stiles reiterates, “and I meant it. I _mean_ it, in a more-than-friends way, in a more-than-just-a-packmate way. In a I really wanna hold your hand and take you out on dates, and maybe make soem sweet, sweet love to you and wake up to your dumb face in the mornings way.”

“I know—”

“Nope,” Stiles cuts Derek off with a shake of his head. “It’s too late for that. I want you to— Why didn’t you say it back?”

He watches realization dawn on Derek’s dumb face. Those eyes widen like a deer caught in the headlights, Derek’s mouth gaping like an adorable little goldfish, like he’s confused about what’s happening.

“I, I thought...I just assumed you knew.” he confessed in the smallest voice that Stiles never thought possible for the big bad used-to-be alpha.

Unbelievable. Stiles thought, the nerves running his veins cold earlier slowly turning into warm, tender affection. _I’m in love with a moron._

He has to fight to keep the smile off his face.

“Well. Maybe I do.” He drifts closer to Derek. “But I still want to hear you say it.” Stiles’ eyes are drawn to Derek’s lips, to those adorable bunny teeth, to the bob of Derek’s adam’s apple as the other man takes a hard gulp.

“I...”

“Say it, Derek.”

Stiles moves his gaze back to Derek’s, and Derek looks right back at him spellbound.

He breathes, and then, “I love you.”

Stiles doesn’t even realize he’s moving still, the sofa cushion dipping under his hand as he tries to get closer, always closer to Derek.

“Do you mean it?.”

Their lips are a hair’s breadth away. Derek can’t breathe.

“Yes.”

His back hits the arm of the sofa. He doesn’t remember moving.

“Say it again.”

Derek gasps as Stiles makes room for himself in the v of his legs, brushing their hips together. Intent.

“I love you.”

Stiles disappears from his sight, and reappears with his lips on his neck, kissing, licking, sucking.

“Again.”

A hand slips under his shirt, roaming all over the best places.

“I love you.”

Finally, finally their lips meet, and Stiles gets impossibly closer, closer, so much closer to Derek.

Stiles makes his body move like an endless wave, and Derek never stood a fucking chance. He clings on for dear life, gasping and moaning Stiles name over and over.

He says those three damned words that took them forever and several near deaths to say. He says it one more time, a million more, until they’re both spilling, and spilling, and spilling.

Derek drowns, and this time Stiles is right there with him.

Isaac walks in on them while they're enjoying their afterglow.

Karma, as Stiles has always said, laughing his head off as Isaac runs back outside yelling about bleaching his eyes, is a just and vengeful bitch.


End file.
